


The Adventure of the Missing Flatmate

by bumblebi221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't let that deter you from reading this, Gen, Halloween, I Tried to be Clever, John Goes on a Case, Low-Quality Mysteries, Mystery, Pre-Slash, Sherlock Being Sherlock, spooky season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27198956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebi221/pseuds/bumblebi221
Summary: In my first actual-mystery fic, Sherlock goes missing and leaves worried John with a case to solve. People keep disappearing and John is left with no choice but to confront whoever's behind it all.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 13





	1. Day 1 - October 21

John Watson spent the twenty-first day of October running around London and chasing criminals, so he was all too happy to return to Baker Street that evening and sit back in his chair. Sherlock, however, had picked up a thread of investigation in a new, intriguing case, and so was pacing around the room excitedly.

“What are we doing for dinner, Sherlock?” asked John. Sherlock continued pacing as if he hadn’t heard him. “Sherlock, I am starving. What are we doing for dinner?” he asked again. Sherlock turned around, irritated at having been disturbed.

“I don’t know, do you want to order in?” He went back to pacing around the room. John rolled his eyes, groaned, and got out of his chair. He walked to the kitchen and took out their stash of take-out menus. Meanwhile, the music of Sherlock’s violin was drifting in from the sitting room.

“Should we do Italian or Chinese, or maybe curry?” Sherlock made no reply. “Sherlock, what do you want for dinner?” The violin came to halt.

“Whatever you want. I’m not really hungry.”

“Shocker.” Sherlock came into the kitchen, apparently looking for something. Opening a drawer, he found it, and dashed down the stairs without a word to John. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Out,” Sherlock answered. John sighed and picked up the curry menu. He ordered for the both of them in case Sherlock returned, though he didn’t count on it. After dinner, he decided to text him.

Where are you?  
Decided on curry, by the way.  
Food’s getting cold.  
Sherlock, answer your phone.

Nothing to worry about, John. New case. Should be quick. No food for me, thanks, so don’t bother leaving it out. Be home soon. SH

Be safe.

Vaguely reassured, John put away his phone and went to bed. But Sherlock didn’t return that evening or the next, and John was getting worried. Sherlock had stopped answering his phone except for a daily I’m okay, can’t talk, don’t worry. SH. John had shown these to Mrs. Hudson, who just waved her hand.  
“I’m sure he’s alright, John,” she said. “Nothing to worry about.” John hoped she was right.


	2. Day 4/5 - October 24/25

John was having a hard time sleeping while worrying about Sherlock’s whereabouts and activities. He had spent the third night lying awake in his bed all night. The fourth night looked to be the same, so he decided to go downstairs and spend it typing up a case. At least then he’d be productive. He was making his way through the dark (not wanting to shock his eyes with light just yet), and he had almost reached the desk when a rock-solid object collided with his toe. Words spewed from his mouth that I won’t repeat here.

“What even is- oh, come on, really?” he muttered as he picked up Sherlock’s violin case and set it on the sleek black chair. Toe throbbing, he sat down at his workplace and opened up his laptop. The harsh, bright screen hurt his eyes and he shut them immediately. He noticed his inbox was bursting with emails, as was Sherlock’s, though the latter was usually the case and no cause for concern. He scrolled down, deleting his junk mail one by one, and marking possible clients for later. One email, however, immediately caught his eye.

Re: John Hamish Watson!

1 file attached  
John, I want you to know that I am perfectly alright. I am sound in mind and body, and everything is fine. However, I still won’t be home for a little while. In the meantime, there’s a case I want you to work on. This was submitted to me two days ago. It is, of course, trivial to me, but I can’t spare the time to pursue it at the moment, and I thought it might be fun for you.

See you soon,

Sherlock Holmes

John glared at the computer. Sherlock had left with hardly a word and now he was leaving him with a case. Well. John was going to show him. He was going to solve that case as soon as he could. He opened the attached file to see eight numbered pictures of crowded streets. The left-hand traffic indicated they must all be in London, though John couldn’t figure anything else out just yet. He thought it best to look at it again with fresh eyes after some rest. 

The next day (after a few hours of sleep) he set right to work. He began by trying to figure out where each of the pictures were. Using maps and the internet he managed to come up with this list, numbering each name with the photo it was in:

STREETS  
BURY COURT (1)  
GEORGE YARD (5)  
SCOTT’S LANE (7)  
THREE BARRELS WALK (2)  
RED LION COURT (4)  
NEW COURT (6)  
GUNPOWDER SQUARE (3)  
NEW BELL YARD (8)

John didn’t know what to make of it. Should he go to those streets? Maybe it was an anagram. No, probably not. Maybe it was another kind of puzzle? John tried listing the names again, in order this time.

BURY COURT  
THREE BARRELS WALK  
GUNPOWDER SQUARE  
RED LION COURT  
GEORGE YARD  
NEW COURT  
SCOTT’S LANE  
NEW BELL YARD

What would happen if he removed the ends of the names? John crossed off the ends.

BURY  
THREE BARRELS  
GUNPOWDER  
RED LION  
GEORGE  
NEW  
SCOTT’S  
NEW BELL

Bury Three Barrels Gunpowder Red Lion George New Scott’s New Bell. John’s new list made a bit more sense now, though not much. New bell? Red Lion? And who’s George? John added the endings back to the ones that didn’t make sense. Bury Three Barrels Gunpowder Red Lion Court George New Scott’s New Bell Yard. Still that New Bell Yard. New Bell Yard… New Scotland Yard? New Scott’s… aha! John crossed the New Bell off. His list now read Bury Three Barrels Gunpowder Red Lion Court George New Scott’s Yard. It was starting to make a bit more sense now. He grouped the words together, hoping to provide some further structure to the information. Bury Three Barrels (of) Gunpowder. Red Lion Court. George, New Scott’s Yard. But who was George?

At this point, John decided to take a break, and maybe have something to eat. He heated up some soup and ate it in front of the television. He was watching a broadcast from Scotland Yard on the latest crime spree. Lestrade was clearly frustrated with all the reporters there asking why it hadn’t been solved yet. If Sherlock were here, he’d be able to solve it, thought John. Indeed, Sherlock would solve it, all while bickering with Donovan, picking on Anderson, and calling Greg the wrong name.

Hang on. If Sherlock called Greg the wrong name, maybe other people did, too. John went back over to the desk where his puzzle remained. Bury Three Barrels (of) Gunpowder. Red Lion Court. George (Greg), New Scott’s Yard. Now it was making more sense. John would go to NSY and ask Lestrade if the first part of the sentence meant anything to him. But first, he’d finish his soup.  
John got a cab to NSY and went inside the building. People were bustling about, working hard to make up for the lack of help from the still-missing Sherlock. He saw Sergeant Donovan and approached her.

“Hey, Sally, is Lestrade available?” he asked, looking towards the DI’s office. She nodded.

“Yeah, he’s in there. Where’s the freak?” John glared at her and stalked off to Lestrade’s office. He got to the door when he realized he was still clenching his fists. He relaxed, took a deep breath, and went into the room.

“Oh, hey, John, any sign from Sherlock?” he asked, looking up from the files on his desk. He had a doughnut in one hand and a steaming coffee was resting next to the papers.

“Actually, I got an email from him last night.” Lestrade’s eyebrows shifted up and he leaned forward, jolted into alertness by the update.

“What did he say?”

“He sent a puzzle, he said it was for a case he can’t be bothered to look into right now. I think this is the answer to the first part.” He held out his paper with the message on it.

“Bury three barrels of gunpowder? Red lion?” Lestrade scrunched his face in confusion.

“Yeah, that was my reaction. Know anything about this?” Lestrade sat thinking for a moment.

“Actually, I think maybe I do. The Red Lion was an inn, and its street took its name. Now there’s an empty lot on that street. Let’s start there.” He and John exited the building, Lestrade carrying a shovel.

“Where’re you headed, Greg?” asked Donovan.

“Investigating something. You’re in charge.” Donovan smiled.

When John and Lestrade arrived at the lot, they were surprised to find what they were looking for almost immediately. Well. Not really. They found another clue, though. Taped to the gate was a paper that on first glance wouldn’t arouse suspicion, but upon closer glance would pique anyone’s interest. It read as follows:

empty lot.  
details on BACK.  
[Then, on the back]  
Red lIon lot  
vacant, waitinG for buyer  
for lease please see mr. Henley  
Tel. 020-86803188

It didn’t take John very long to figure out what the paper was saying. Back right. He showed this to Greg, and they made their way to the back right corner of the lot.

“The ground here’s been shifted recently,” noticed John. Indeed, the dusty dirt was darker and looser. Greg went to his car and grabbed the shovel, and began digging. Clunk. He reached down and pulled from the hole a smallish metal box. He handed it to John, who opened it hesitantly. Inside was a flashdrive. Lestrade bent down again and pulled out a barrel, on which the box had been resting. Inside the barrel was, of course, gunpowder, but it was too heavy to just be gunpowder. He dug up the rest of the barrels and John pulled them out. They loaded them into the car and brought them back to NSY. They dumped the contents of the barrels into three separate, clear plastic bins.

“We’ll take a look at these and see if there’s anything interesting in them,” he said to John. “Let me know what’s on that drive.” John nodded his head and went back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson came upstairs after him and he recounted to her the events of his day. She made them both some tea while John plugged the drive into his laptop. On the drive was an image of a desk. A very familiar desk.  
John practically shoved the money in the cab driver’s face as he sprinted inside NSY. Ignoring the confused half-sentences from the detectives, he threw open the door to Lestrade’s office. The DI was nowhere to be seen, but on the desk was a note.

19-15-18-18-25, 10-15-8-14. 20-8-5-25-22-5 7-15-20 13-5. 9 3-1-14-20 20-5-12-12 25-15-21 13-21-3-8 13-15-18-5 20-8-1-14 20-8-1-20, 2-21-20 13-1-25-2-5 13-25-3-18-15-6-20 23-9-12-12 2-5 1-2-12-5 20-15 8-5-12-16. 7-18-5-7.

Great. Another puzzle. Just what he needed. He examined the paper closely. It smelled like coffee and aftershave. The ink was slightly smeared in some places. It must have been written by Lestrade in a hurry. But what was the message? He looked at the numbers. The alphabet has 26 letters, and this note only had numbers up to 25. Then again, the odds are not all the letters were used. What numbers correspond to what letters? John decided to try the simplest approach of a = 1, b = 2, all the way down to z. That would explain the lack of a 26. John turned out to be right, and the deciphered message read:

Sorry, John. They’ve got me. I can’t tell you much more than that, but maybe Mycroft will be able to help. Greg.

John went to find Donovan. She was sitting at her desk, typing up a report.

“Hey, Sally, have you seen Greg, by any chance?” She looked up at him, thoughtful.

“He left after you did, but he didn’t say where he was going. Leave him a message, he’ll probably be back soon,” she said.

“Thanks, Sally,” said John, turning to leave. He could call Mycroft, but this seemed like it might be safer to discuss in person. He went outside and found the nearest security camera. He waved at it, and a few minutes later a sleek black car pulled up. Anthea, caught up in something on her phone, waved him in from her seat in the back. He climbed in and the car sped off. Soon they were outside an abandoned building. John went inside and immediately spotted Mycroft.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Watson,” he said, leaning on his umbrella. “What could possibly compel you to avoid a phone call and opt for such a clandestine meeting as this?”

“Sherlock’s missing, Lestrade’s missing, and I’m worried,” answered John. “You have cameras everywhere, have you seen anything?”

“I’ll ask my associates,” said Mycroft. “It’s not out of the ordinary for Sherlock to disappear like this, though. Are you sure you’re not overreacting?” John stared at him.

“Yes, I am sure. Something’s up, I can tell.”

“I’ll get back to you, Dr. Watson. Go back to Baker Street. I’ll be in touch.” And so John got back in the car, and soon found himself back home. He went to his computer and decided, since all he could do was wait, he might as well type up one of the finished cases. But Mycroft didn’t call for the rest of that day, or the next. Normally, John would brush it off, but with everything going on recently, he panicked. He called Molly, but she wasn’t picking up. He tried everyone he could think of, even Mike Stamford, but nobody was picking up.

“Mrs. Hudson!” he yelled. “Mrs. Hudson, come here!” She came upstairs as fast as she could, concerned by the edge in John’s voice.

“What is it, dear?” she asked gently.

“Everyone’s missing, so we’re staying here and we’re not leaving until we figure out what’s going on. I am not losing you, too,” he said. “No going to the shops. You might not come back.” Mrs. Hudson seemed remarkably calm while John was growing increasingly frantic.


	3. Day 10 - October 30

The next few days were dull, but at least they were safe. They passed the time playing chess, talking to each other, reading, writing, cleaning. They did every possible thing to do, and were still bored. Neither of them made any move to go anywhere, however, until they ran out of food. John came out of the shower to find a note on his desk. It said:

Sorry, John. We’re out of food, so I had to go down the shops. I’ll be back, don’t worry.

John kicked the table, then held his throbbing foot as he pondered the loss of everyone close to him. He was about to scream when his computer chimed. He had an email. The sender was unknown, and the message read:

John H. Watson. If you want your friends back, come to the abandoned warehouse tomorrow at 7:00 p.m. Come alone, wear a disguise, and tell no one.  
The address was listed below. John went to bed, hoping everyone was okay.


	4. Day 11 - October 31

John was tense the whole day long. Instead of watching scary movies at home, he’d have to rescue his friends. Expecting conflict, he loaded his revolver and put it on the table for when he’d leave. Disguise. John went to his room, looking for something disguise-worthy. He found the Halloween costume he had planned on wearing. He had gotten Sherlock a matching one, as a joke, because Sherlock was too grumpy and John thought it’d be funny. John’s costume was Bilbo Baggins, and Sherlock was supposed to be Smaug. So much for that. He put on the wig and fake ears, and the tunic and trousers. He even had his own Sting. He decided it might be useful to attack whoever was behind this, so he tucked it in its sheath at his side. He grabbed his mobile and his revolver and was out the door by 6:40.

Thanks to a great cabbie, he arrived five minutes early. He waited outside, unsure of whether or not he should go in early. He decided it was best to wait and enter on time, just to be safe. He opened the door and wandered inside. It was dark, and he was on the alert for an ambush.

“Hello?” he called, trying to keep his voice level as he walked down a long corridor. “Anyone there? Sherlock? Greg? Molly? Are you guys here? Are you safe?” He kept walking, gun in front of him, ready to fire. At last he came to an open space. He could dimly make out shapes on the catwalk above, staying stock-still. He pointed the gun to the ceiling, and fired a few warning shots. “I’m armed, so you better answer me. Where are my friends?” He was getting angry now. Just as he was about to shoot one of the shapes, the lights flashed on.

“Boo!” yelled the shapes. After letting his eyes adjust, John saw that it was his friends on the catwalk. Molly was dressed as a cat, Lestrade, dressed in prison garb, was a bit fixated on Molly’s costume, and Sherlock was in his Smaug costume. “Happy Halloween, John,” added Sherlock, walking down the stairs and approaching John. The others descended, too.

“What is this? I thought you were in danger!” John said, a bit upset that he had been deceived into thinking something was wrong.

“I thought a surprise Halloween party would be fun,” said Sherlock. “I thought you’d be excited to have a case, and be pleasantly surprised to find food and merriment instead.”

“I thought you could’ve been hurt.”

“I’m sorry, John. I just thought, since Halloween is supposed to be scary, it would be fun. I know you were looking forward to it, so I planned a surprise party for you and I got these guys in on it. We thought you’d enjoy it,” he said, downcast. “And I did tell you I was fine.” John’s hardened eyes softened, and he felt bad. Sherlock had worked really hard on this, and it had been exciting to go on a case by himself.

“No, Sherlock, you did great,” said John. “I was just worried for you. But you’re fine, so there’s no reason to still be angry.” Sherlock gave a small smile that grew as John pulled him into a hug. “And you’re wearing the costume!” John drew his sword and poked him with it. Sherlock hissed jokingly in response.

John spent the rest of the evening eating and hanging out with his previously unaccounted-for friends. Everybody’s costumes were great. Mycroft, at the request of his brother, was wearing regal robes and a powdered wig. John and Sherlock kneeled before him every time they ran into each other, and every time they burst into giggles. Mycroft did not find this funny, but still struggled to repress a smile. 

Given the circumstances, John decided he could easily forgive Sherlock for worrying him.


End file.
